The Legend of the Man on the Hill
by Restrained.Freedom
Summary: Story by kumar LaVoixDuSud... Legends form over time. Some are to be believed, and others rejected, but listen to the story and judge for yourself whether or not it be true... a reclusive exile, an afflicted queen, and the journey to healing...
1. Prologue

**A/Notes:**

**This Prologue {and the Epilogue} takes place hundreds of years after the defeat of the usurper king Galbatorix. But the chapters between will tell of events that occurred several years after his fall. **

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**The man on the hill.**

**Prologue. {Origin of a Legend}**

Rumors abound, especially on the fringes of the empire. And there are few inhabited places more remote than the coastal city of Ceunon.

The people say that beyond the city gates, nestled among the wild rocks that battle the turbulent sea, and the great forests that stretch eastward towards the elven lands, there stands a lone hill, buffeted and beaten by relentless winds. During the summer season, the saltiness of the sea burns the scant grasses that have managed to survive the meager spring. And in winter not even snow can settle there against the forceful gales.

Somewhere between the rocks at the foot of the hill, where many fierce storms and relentless crashing waves conspire to disturb the calm, is hidden a small cave. Inaccessible except by sea or air, this cave is a shelter to those few who can reach it; to wildlife, seals, sea lions, gulls, and on rare occasions, a temporary haven for the stranger.

Such are the rumors that have been passed down, and over several generations the tale has made its way to the furthest corners of the empire...

And they say that on days when the fog shrouds the hill with a misty veil, and you cannot see clearly beyond a few steps, that is when you might chance to glimpse the ghostly stranger that comes to haunt the hill. No one has ever seen his face, but it is said that at the touch of his hands, whatever wound or illness your body might have is instantly healed.

On such days, many people gather at the foot of the hill. And they bring their sick and wounded with them. Mothers come bearing their weakened children, and the elderly with the pains of their long years. Workers and seafarers, crippled by the heavy work and hard labor, these approach the hill with their needs, as do many others who have been touched by misfortune.

And of those gathered, most of them will leave as they have come, for not everyone who comes is blessed to see the stranger. But for the one who persists and endures the cold dampness of the sea air, for that one it could be possible. One such as this might be rewarded with the long awaited encounter, and receive his health restored. Or so the people say.

Additionally, those lucky ones who have met him and insist that they have been cured, they say that he may be one of the gods, or a good spirit of the sea. And others imagine him to be an generous elf who, escaping the spells of their forests, has come to help the humans. For although no one has ever seen his face, they have heard his voice. And that voice is the voice of a young man; the voice of one who, though the years have passed, never seems to grow older.

According to the tales, the stranger will disappear for days, sometimes months or even years. But always he returns, suddenly and without warning, he comes to the hill, reprising the isolated role he has assumed. And then, he patiently takes care for all those who seek his help, without ever asking anything in return.

No one knows where he resides, or where he spends his days and nights, for it is only on certain foggy mornings that he appears on the hill. And these mornings are usually preceded by a night sky rent with thunder-like roars and red flames flashing like lightening behind the clouds.

These are the signs the people watch for. This is how they know that the mighty healer has returned...

And the people call him 'the man on the hill' because they don't know how else to call him.

In spite of the many tales told, there are still some who say that the rumored healer is simply the figment of imaginative minds. They question the rumors. Is there truly a hill to the north of Ceunon. Does this unknown healer really exist at all? If his hands touch you, will you really have all your pains healed? More likely it is only the wild hopes of desperate people that have created all these rumors. Nevertheless, the rumors spread like wildfire, told by word of mouth all over the realm.

And over the many years, time takes the rumors and turns them into legend...

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**A/Notes: Posted on 7-16-2013**

**I do not own, or claim, or profit from, or covet the "Inheritance Cycle" in any way. I don't even have the right to receive acclaim for this fanfiction. This is not my story. It was written by one of my five all-time-favorite authors on this website "kumar LaVoixDuSud" who has the full rights of authorship. He has graciously asked me to take the English version of his story, and flavor it a bit with my own style. I am honored that he thinks me capable of improving on his works. Though I fear that some of his natural poetic aesthetics may be lost in my translation. Still, I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I did. **

**And if you do enjoy it, please feel free to check out Kumar's other works. There will be a link to his account on my Profile Page.**

**{****_For anyone who just can't wait to see the end of this story, "The Man on the Hill" is currently posted -in completion- in the Greek language. You will likely need a translator -and those are never perfect- but if you do choose to do so, you will better sense Kumar's poetic flare._****}**

**Feel free to leave a review and let us know what you think...**


	2. The First Sighting

**A/Notes:**

**Posted: 7-24-2013**

**I stress once again, that this is not my work. All I have done is polished up the English translation for my good friend. If you like it you can thank ********"kumar LaVoixDuSud" who has the full rights of authorship.**

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**The Man on the Hill.**

**Chapter One: The First Sighting**

This night was dark and cold. It was the middle of the winter and, up here at the north, the light was gone since midday. Even in the morning, one could say that the sun had not risen at all. Dark, leaden clouds covered the dome of the sky, and the raging wind bent the parched trees, as if their lives - frightened by the howling of the north wind - had taken to hiding in the rind, awaiting the spring.

Gales blew across the ears of the workers at the harbor, the few who had dared to venture out; hard at work, caulking their vessels -drawn out of the sea- and tarring the hulls. The foaming waters struck against the rocks of the coast, and crashed into the docks with power and fury that threatened to swallow anyone approaching. And since afternoon, the drizzling drops had started dropping on the sea faring town, doing battle with the salty spray that worked to melt the previous night's snow, and dispersing the freezing droplets, which did their best to turn into ice, covering the roadsides, the wooden balconies and the rooftops of the city.

On a night like that no one was strolling around, unless he was in the most urgent need. And the healer grumbled resentfully when he was called by the older son of the widow to see to the youngest child; the sick one. Why had they disturbed him from his comfort, beside his fireplace? The little one could not be healed. He had told the desperate woman she should not keep any hope. The poor mother wasted her meager money on herbs and remedies in vain. She would do better to take care of her remaining two children. The little one had gone worse during the last few days, and even if a miracle could occur and the fever ceased, there would be an unhealed damage in his chest, in his small lungs forever... Or at least, for as long as he could suffer to survive; the miserable one.

But the healer responded to the call because the oath he had taken committed him, he could not deny any if he was called. So he responded, though the only thing he could do was to change the cool compresses on the flaming forehead, to prepare a boiled herb, the broth of which would bring a certain measure of relief, and to leave some orders, how she could take care of the others. The disease would be contagious for sure, and there was no reason for the widow to lose another child.

From the corner of his vision, he noticed the middle child. The little girl was not yet five years old, sat quietly staring at him with her bright eyes wide-open eyes. And there the flame from the half-melted candle reflected golden sparks in the blue colored orbs; eyes full of entreaty, eyes full of hope, eyes that looked at him and supplicated for the salvation of the younger brother.

The brother who had remained the only ornament in the poor house, ever since the moment that Death had stolen the father's life. Alas, the good-natured sailor had been drown at sea. And now Death was demanding this innocent life too. But he, the doctor, could not permit for this last joy of the family to be lost, the bright eyes to shut down forever! So spoke to him the girl's eyes. She fixed her gaze, pinning them on his hands, and waited for him to work the miracle.

And the older boy, eight years of age at the most, stood silently by their mother's side as she continued her vigil at her sick one's bed, both day and night. And she had no mind anymore, neither to work nor for anything else. And their house had deprived of all the goods.

The healer's earnest attempts paid his debt to his oath. He had done whatever he could, and was ready to leave. Passing by her side, he touched the woman's shoulder to hearten her. On the humble table, two bronze coins of small value -perhaps the last of the house- waited for him as a payment for his trouble and herbs. But he pretended he didn't see them. He smiled at the boy, but he avoided the girl, unable to meet her gaze. Steeling himself against the inevitable, he stepped through the door and out into the cold of the night, biting his lips. He wished he was able to keep the little one alive, and though his art had done whatever was possible, he knew it would not be enough.

As he hurried back up the street towards the more affluent end of town, his head lowered, to avoid the freezing snow, he periodically lifted his face to be sure of his footing and direction. And thus, he was the first in all the city to ever see the stranger, coming from the opposite direction of the empty road. Covered with a long cloak and a hood lowered to the eyes, the dark figure moved purposefully passed, and disappeared into the shadows of the night and the sleet. Shuddering, the healer hurried to return to the warmth of his home, neither noticing the clouds up in the sky acquiring a scarlet tint, red like a fire, like spilled blood, nor did he hear the roar in the night, hidden within the howling of the wind.

_And since that night many years have passed, but people still say that a miracle was worked at the poor widow's house that same freezing cold night. Was it the truth? Was it a lie? Were there exaggerations of the mother and of her little children who saw the younger one to come back to life the next morning? Who could possibly know for sure? _

At the next day, the widow told her incredible tale, insisting that in the middle of the previous night her door was stretched open. And at first they had thought that the northern wind had caught the door, for the latch was broken and didn't close well. But when they looked up, there the stranger stood at the opening, and all were stricken speechless. Surely this was the terrifying one, the one who comes in the night and takes the souls. And now he had come for the little one. The stranger's face was hidden beneath the dark hood, all his body as well within his cape. No one could even guess at his features; eyes, nose, mouth, all were shrouded in the shadows. The closing of the door behind him awakened the silent room, and the widow, suddenly filled with foreboding, rushed between them, falling to her knees in front of him.

"Take me, Lord Death. Take me and let this young one live" she pleaded with tears in her eyes; desperate, in spite of knowing there were no such exchanges in the world of humans...

Without even a glance, the stranger brushed past her and approached the wooden bed to lean over the sick boy. With his hand, he touched the small pained chest, ravaged by coughing and fever, and he began to chant strange words, of some unknown language that the widow had never before heard. Though the mother's fear was great, some part of her came to realize that her child was not being harmed. Slowly she sat back on the stool next to the bed, staring helplessly at the little feverish face, and letting the cloaked figure do as he knew.

As the hours passed, the stranger continued chanting incomprehensible words, and the older sibling moved in closer. Candle-light flickered and faded, light dimming as the candle dwindled. Though the boy thought he saw the man's palm shining with a silver glow. Still, he couldn't be sure. As tired as he was, it might have been his imagination.

The quiet chanting finally came to an end, creating a thick silence. All gazes were drawn to the the sickbed, and finally without warning, the little one opened his eyes and smiled at his mother. He smiled; this same child who for many days now could do more than cough. Sweeping the little one up in her arms, the widow felt his cool brow. The miracle had been done, the fever was gone! And standing, the stranger headed towards the door, dismal, and silent, without even a backward glance. Thrusting the child in his sister's arms, the mother tried to grasp the hand of the healer, intending to kiss it. But he hurriedly retreated. The door to the poor dwelling opened and closed again, and the stranger in the dark cloak disappeared in the black of the night.

That morning, many people gathered at the widow's house to see the miracle for themselves. Indeed, the youngest child was healthy and robust, running and playing with the other children. It was as if the illness had never touched him, as if Death had never approached him.

And many of those that witnessed the sight, marveled and rejoiced with the family; though not all. There were others who accused them of deception, claiming that the story of a heavy illness was a lie. But the testimony of the doctor supported the widow's claim, asserting that the previous day he had seen the child, and he could not be saved. He also said that he had once heard tales about powerful magicians. If one had enough gold to pay, such men could heal even the very ill. But the doctor admitted he had never heard about one so powerful as this. Even the king himself, the one who was said to have held his power for over a hundred years, the one who, only a few months before had lost his life and his throne, he had gathered all the magicians under his control, to use them for his own benefit.

And as the day was passing and the widow's youngest child was playing and laughing, the joy was raising in the cold city; and no one thought about seeking the stranger. Nor they believed the girl when she said that she had managed to see 'his' eyes for a moment, and they were red, like the spilled blood. And when they finally remembered him, and thought to seek him out, it was already afternoon. And no matter how long they looked for him, or how much they asked about him, no one could find out where he went.

But several sailors insisted that in the dim morning light, they had seen a stranger, much like the one described by the widow, nearing the hillside just north of the city. It was probable that he had sought refugee in a cave. Curious, people headed towards the place, to seek the enchanter who had saved the poor doomed child. Little by little, many gathered at the base of the hill. Some of them even brought their sick, and for those who came, the man on the hill healed them too.

_And people say all started like that. But no one has ever seen his face._

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**A/Notes: Posted on 7-24-2013**

**I do not own, or claim, or profit from, or covet the "Inheritance Cycle" in any way. I don't even have the right to receive acclaim for this fanfiction. This is not my story. It was written by "kumar LaVoixDuSud" who has the full rights of authorship. He has graciously asked me to take the English version of his story, and smooth it out a bit, and I am honored that he thinks me capable of improving on his works. Though I fear that some of his natural poetic aesthetics may be lost in my translation. Still, I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I did. **

**And if you do enjoy it, please feel free to check out Kumar's other works. There will be a link to his account on my Profile Page.**

**{****_For anyone who just can't wait to see the end of this story, "The Man on the Hill" is currently posted -in completion- in the Greek language. You will likely need a translator -and those are never perfect- but if you do choose to do so, you will better sense Kumar's poetic flare._****}**

**Once again, feel free to leave a review and let us know what you think...**


	3. Chapter Two: Seeking Atonement

**A/Notes:**

**Posted: 8-25-2013**

**It has been a month and a day since I last posted a chapter, and for the delay I can only apologize. I've no excuse worth mentioning, but I hope that this is the first of a more settled and continuous writing pattern.**

**I won't bore you any further with my prattle... But if anyone reading this {_and comparing it to the original work by Kumar_} can think of anything I can do to improve my interpretation, please do not hesitate to let me know.**

**Enjoy!**

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**The Man on the Hill.**

**Chapter Two: Seeking Atonement **

A thick carpet of misty vapor crept inland from the sea, covering the shore and enshrouding the hill north of Ceunon. Obscured within its dewy dim, a black-clad figure rested on a rough rock that had been much diminished due to the constant salinity. The figure cast his gaze upwards towards heavens, and with his sight, strong and full of magic, he was the only one able to see the red glow that wandered behind the thick clouds overhead. There his companion flew well-hidden from the prying human eyes, well hidden from the population so full of suspicion, prejudice, and fear.

The thoughts of the man ascended upward, as he shared his mind with the other, the only being that fate had seen fit to leave him with. Both he and his companion had been condemned by circumstances, to live in the wilderness, persecuted by everyone, hated and abandoned.

_'We are truly cursed.'_

His feelings of desperation rose upwards from his chest, reaching his head and burning his cheeks.

_'I do not accept this'_ replied the companion. _'We always have each other. We have our strength and the endless years of living ahead... Things can change with time.'_

_'Thorn! Nothing can change what we have done.'_ The man's voice was filled with bitterness. _'Time will never turn back on that day when I held you in my hands for the first time. Neither can we change any of our decisions, nor undo our mistakes.'_

_'It was the evil King who forced us, Murtagh!'_

The melodic voice of the Dragon sounded apologetic in his mind. The man clenched his teeth, and bit his lips with rage and despair. And he could not imagine what would have happened without the great, the wonderful presence of his companion.

_'If only we hadn't cooperated ... maybe ...'_

_'But we did,' _the dragon's answer interrupted, crashing against the man's dilemma.

_'We had to protect each other,'_ the man threw out his feeble excuse. His lips were torn from the rage that tortured them, from so often biting them, and he tasted his own blood. The companion's next words washed over him ruefully...

_'Were our lives so very important in this world?'_

_'Yours was, yes!' _

As the dark memory of that day swept over him, his strong hand grabbed tightly the hilt of a sharp blood-red-sword... Anger, rage! It rose up to the man's throat choking him; raging against everyone. Against the King using their true names to enslave them. Against the twin magicians whose treachery thrust him into the hands of the king. Against the Varden whose lack of loyalty left him a helpless captive of the twins. And even against his brother, who through his very birth became the reason for depriving him of his mother. And the crashing emotions surged with images of demolishing the hill with his bare hands and filling the sea with blood, until...

A tiny wisp of a feeling brushed against and cooled the overwhelming gulf of anguish. It was the only sweet feeling in his life, the one he struggled in vain to stifle, the one he worked so hard not to feel, and yet was so powerless against it.

_'You do not do well to fight it'_ the voice of the companion spoke to the man's mind.

_'I cannot think about her. I have more important things to do in my life.'_

_'Like what happened last night?'_

_'Like that... and more.'_

He stretched out his consciousness and at the edges of his mind he sensed the people coming; their curiosity, their concern and fear, as well as their pain and hope.

With the black hood he covered his head up to his eyes, so no one could see his face and recognize him. There he stood, on the hill, half-hidden behind the fog. And the first one, the bravest or the most desperate approached him, pleading for his cure. The man stretched out his hands and touched the pain. With a whispering voice, half-covered-over by the waves that broke and foamed against the rocks of the coast, he recited the magical words. And healing sprung from his palms, and along with that sprung hope. The health and strength returned to the pained, the wounded, the sick bodies. And the man on the hill, his own powers united with those of his partner, together they become catalysts/communicants of the offering, atonement, and the repentance.

_~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~_

The girl slept on her bed. The gleam of the fire from the fireplace threw reddish tinges on her face, and played with the shadows over her closed eyelids. It permeated her eyelashes, creating dreams in her sleeping subconscious, dreams that called back her distant memories.

_... two steely eyes full of pain looking at her ..._

_... lips full of longing .. bitten, wounded lips ..._

_... with dry blood on them ..._

_... hands holding the fire ..._

_... hot iron approaching ..._

_... and approaching continuously ..._

_... searing fire touches soft flesh ..._

_... no ... no ... not you! ... not again! ..._

"Aaaaaaagh!"

With a jolt the girl sat up on her bed, throwing aside her bedding, her body shaken by her panting breath. Moaning, she cast her gaze about her unsettled. No longer was she in the Hall of the Soothsayer, but in the chamber of the Queen... and there was the fire lit in the fireplace... and _he_ had vanished ...

The door opened widely and the guards rushed inside.

"Your Majesty!"

Grasping her robe, she quickly covered herself, the breath in her chest returning to normal. And she swung her feet over the edge of the mattress to rest on the thick carpet in front of the bed, connecting her again with the earth and reality... and empty reality. Her eyes drooped to the floor.

"I am alright. It was just a dream."

A few minutes later she had convinced the protective guards that she was well, and the door closed once again, leaving her alone. Laying back down she attempted to rest, but sleep eluded her slim body. The maker of dreams had abandoned her, he had opened his wings and flown far away from the Queen's chamber, releasing her from his embrace, and dropping her back to where the emptiness of reality was only marginally better than the nightmare she had endured.

The queen stood and cooled her flaming face with the water from the basin, and rather than returning to bed, she moved towards her desk and lit a candle. With a trembling hand she lifted the quill and dipped the tip into the inkwell. Her lush calligraphy flowed from the point, little by little covering the blank parchment in front of her.

_'Tonight is the twenty-first night of the last moon of the winter. And once again the same dream has returned ...'_

The inner door that separated the royal chamber from the little girl's room opened, and the dark-haired little one with the mark of the Dragons on her brow entered, somewhat belatedly.

"Nasuada..."

The little girl smiled painfully, her bare feet dragging on the cold slabs of the stony floor. She crossed the room and sat on the edge of the royal bed hugging her legs, with her chin on her knees.

"Go back to sleep, Elva. It was just a dream."

The little one nodded with her dark-haired head thoughtfully.

'… just a dream …'

The Queen stood up and straightened her shoulders proudly. Outside the window, many hours would be needed for the dawn to turn the sky golden, and she surmised that the lost sleep would serve her best if she worked through the night. The state of affairs were many and difficult, and the Queen was determined to cope with them all.

Approaching the girl, the Queen took her by her hands, intending to guide her back to her own chambers.

"Go to sleep, little one! As for me … I have to work."

But the little girl pulled back, pointing stubbornly at the empty bed with her finger.

"I do not wish to leave you alone. Let me stay here tonight. I can not stand to be alone either ... after this."

The Queen hesitated with indecision. Perhaps the presence of the girl would help route her morbid thoughts from her mind...

_... it was he who held the fire, again ..._

Shaking off her thoughts, she tucked the little girl into the royal bed, covering her with her own bedding. Then she threw two more thick logs in the fireplace to strengthen the heat. Immediately the fire began eating greedily at the wood, and the Queen shuddered at the sight.

..._ that glowing fire again _...

"Don't," she heard Elva's weak voice behind her. "Do not do this to yourself. Come beside me to rest. What worth is there in possessing so much power if you cannot even sleep at night?"

The young Queen smiled sadly, pulling herself away from the fire, and turning her gaze on the other.

"Possessing such power is not meant to be held for one's own benefit, but to serve the others; to serve the people who have entrusted their welfare to their leader's care."

Sitting quietly in front of her desk, she watched as the little girl's eyes closed, and with the passing minutes, the disturbance in her core subsided. Her breathing had returned to normal again, and she sighed as she gently caught up her pen with the tips of her fingers.

Before devoting herself to the more serious work, she leaned over the partially filled page and carved one more word... A name from the time before. A name she had not spoken for a long time. A name that she ought to have forgotten. But this name was always alive, half hidden behind the shadows of her mind. Nestled between the cracks of her heart. During the rare quiet moments when she was left alone - or on restless nights like this one when sleep eluded her - that was when the name appeared again, wandering around in the chamber and haunting her waking dreams...

And the pen etched slowly over the waiting parchment, below the date and the incomplete entry, one by one she wrote the letters...

_'… Murtagh …'_

_~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~_

**_«And a rumor has begun to spread... Some people are saying that the Queen suffers from an incurable sickness. And that of all the healers who have attended her, no one has managed to cure her, so far.»_**

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**Repeated AuthorNotes, Acknowledgements, and Disclaimers: **

**Posted on 8-25-2013**

**I do not own, or claim, or profit from, or covet the "Inheritance Cycle" in any way. I don't even have the right to receive acclaim for this fanfiction. This is not my story. It was written by "kumar LaVoixDuSud" who has the full rights of authorship. He has graciously asked me to take the English version of his story, and smooth it out a bit, and I am honored that he thinks me capable of improving on his works. Though I fear that some of his natural poetic aesthetics may be lost in my translation. Still, I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I did. **

**And if you do enjoy it, please feel free to check out Kumar's other works. There will be a link to his account on my Profile Page.**

**{****_For anyone who just can't wait to see the end of this story, "The Man on the Hill" is currently posted -in completion- in the Greek language. You will likely need a translator -and those are never perfect- but if you do choose to do so, you will better sense Kumar's poetic flare._****}**

**Once again, feel free to leave a review and let us know what you think...**

* * *

**Edited on 8-27-2013 At the urging of one of my readers, I took a look at a line in the dream sequence that needed a change and have done so. If you like the improvement, you can thank reviewer "cassowary" for brining it to my attention. Well done!**


	4. Seeds of Healing, Blooms of Vengeance

**A/Notes:**

**Posted: 9-11-2013 ****Never forget! I wrote a heartfelt message at the end of the chapter.**

**I hope you all enjoy this translation of Kumar's work. Once again, I can not claim this story as my own, but I feel honored and privileged to have been part of sharing with you his vibrant vision.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

**The Man on the Hill.**

**Chapter Three: Seeds of Healing, Blooms of Vengeance**

On the northern edge of the country where the wild waves crash furiously over the surf-beaten coastal cliffs, there was a particular precipice overlooking the sea. There the lone figure often came and stood. Motionless as rock in the face of unbridled weather, he allowed the icy north wind to blow on his face and clothes, to whistle in his ears and twirl his long hair like snakes on his shoulders and back. Salty gales gusted over him, washing him with an invigorating sting/freshness, and soothing his heart and mind.

Looking upon the distant horizon, the figure could just barely discern the forbidden island and the peaks of the mountains that adorned it. Vroengard, the deserted foreboding land, on it stood the devastated base of the Dragon Riders of old. That was where he should have been brought up. It was there that he should have been trained, alongside the one who was his brother. And the lone figure silently lamented the loss of all that might have been.

They were brothers both in blood and in destiny, sharing both a maternal bond, as well as a bond a dragon. In spite of this similarity, their lives had been quite different. They knew each other only barely, for fate had given them very little time together. Still, if things had been different, the brothers might have been taught together... by the ancient master and his golden Dragon. But this was a dream that could never be, for fate had chosen to be cruel. The very same golden pair who might have otherwise been his teacher, had been unwittingly slaughtered by his own hand... At this thought, a wave of anguish washed over the figure on the cliff... If only things had turned out otherwise.

And today, like many days before, this silent figure was soon joined by another. The companion of his mind and heart descended from the heaven, to stand motionless beside him. With scales gleaming brilliantly like ruby jewels upon the dark rugged cliff, the dragon was a magnificent sight. While the shining sun still pierced the thick, grey, mantle that clothed the sky, the sun's light reflected in sparkling scarlet prisms. Dazzling rays of illumination danced upon the surface of the water, and dove deep beneath the waves and into the bottomless depths. Some of the lights struck the cliffside, to decorate the surrounding stone, and still others lit the shadowed underbelly of melancholy clouds. If that were not striking enough, snow white spikes glowed radiantly down the length of his back, starting from the base of his head all the way to the end of his tail. Thorn; this dazzling feature had given him his name. And each spine radiated with brilliance at the touch of the morning sun. They shined like glittering white beacons, visible up to the skies and out to the ends of the sea.

Together they gazed longingly at the opposite rocks, as if something there were calling them closer. Often they had considered answering the call, and had flown above the island, circling around the harbor and the abandoned ruins. But they well knew that there was nothing left for them there. The King's dark and malicious magic had tainted everything. And Umaroth's warning still sounded lively in their ears:

_'… avoid too the ruins of Voengard …'_

For on this at least, they intended to heed to the advice of the ancient Eldunarí.

Once they had their fill of the salty smell of the sea, the pair took to the skies, flying together above the clouds. Ever northerly, they followed the rugged, weathered coastline of Alagaësia till they reached a group of small rocky islands. Ancient and pristine, these islands had long ago been formed from the upheaval of earthquakes and the relentless pounding of the waves.

There, on the tallest cliff of the northernmost island, hidden from human eyes, the outcast pair chose to make their sanctuary. There in secrecy, they carved into the foundation of the cliff to forge a mighty castle; a strong one, to shelter the two companions from the animosity of all the races. The towering walls of the stronghold grew every day, extending upward little by little with magic, its dark surface blending in perfectly with its surroundings. Having been wrought out of the black stone of the sea, melted by the Dragon's fire, and carved by the magic of his Rider, the black castle provided for them a suitable haven. Rest was found within the safety of its ramparts, and the gift of concealment worked two ways. It became protection from the world where they could hide from prying eyes and stinging accusations, but even more importantly, it protected the world from the darkness of their shattered hearts, their twisting pain, their sorrow, loneliness, and guilt.

Within the formidable stone structure, the rooms were austere and simply furnished, with a few shelves that contained books; readings and writings to occupy the Dragon Rider. There was also a wooden table, a couple chairs, a few simple utensils, and a hard bed. And there they lived, sometimes talking, sometimes silent, stirring the passions of the past, or planning for a better future, or often trapped in the wide chasm that hung between.

The companion often created in his mind comforting images. _The two of them flying over sunny plains where herds of antelopes grazed peacefully, at least until the moment the hunt began... Gliding over winding rivers, following the streams as they coiled calmly their paths between the hills... Diving into sparkling azure waters, swimming in cool lakes, playing freely and lightheartedly, quenching their thirst from the gurgling brooks whispering in their ears. And all around them the warmth to meld their cold interior. All around them meadows of thick green grass and clover, teaming with life, and inviting them to partake. All around them the shady shelter of dense, beautiful trees for the chosen one of his heart and mind, to lie beneath them, to rest._ Images such as these were the seeds of healing to the pair.

And other times, though more rarely, the Dragon's thought flew towards the horizon ... towards the unknown. He formed in his mind the images, and he displayed them in the mind of his Rider. _The two of them journeying far towards the place where the brother-Dragon-Rider resides with his Blue-Scaled Lady._ And the great heart of the Dragon would nearly break from longing, at the thought that he might never again see his brethren. But sadly, they both knew that the time had not yet come.

Such was the mind of the dragon on that day. And the man, felt the heart of his companion torn between anguish and ecstacy. Quietly, the man received and absorbed the imagery and the depth of his dragon's feelings, and thus he allowing the other's heart to revel in the joy and the longing for a while longer.

Now while the companion dared to dream, the rider withdrew into a seldom used room. With magic he lit a werelight, hanging it overhead to dispel the darkness that otherwise veiled the carven image. And there she was, standing so lifelike within the vaulted room, her brightness a contrast against the stone walls made of the dark rock of the sea. And the rider's gaze was drawn irresistibly to her... to the fairth.

Snowy white marble, so bright it resembled glowing moon in the midnight sky, it was a prize that had required great effort and patient searching. Carefully brought from a distant place, imbedded securely in the walls of the great room, and magically polished to a shimmering veneer, this medium was clearly as extraordinary as its subject matter. On this surface, he had created _her_ portrait... the Queen's.

The view was not taken from the heartbreaking memory of the last time they had said goodbye. Nor was it the agonizing image of her chained, tortured, and helpless, in the Hall of the Soothsayer. Not even like he had found her, standing straight and proud in her tent that night when - having first killed her guards - he had grabbed her by her hair and dragged her into captivity...

No, the image unalterably imprinted in the radiant stone was the moment he had seen her for the first time back then... still a young maiden... under the dark tunnels of Farthen Dûr. Curious and friendly, she had come to visit him in his cell, and for a moment she had lingered at the entrance, a bright presence, pure, beautiful, and regal. He had been so young and still ignorant of the malice and manipulation that was soon to cripple his existence. And she had offered her friendship to him along with a ray of hope to shine on his distraught heart. This was the moment preserved for all eternity...

And the Dragon Rider reached out his hand and lightly touched the hem of the carved dress. His palm raised to brush the covered knees, caressing tenderly the folds about her waist. That was where it would have been hidden; the knife with the golden handle, embellished with gems, a confidence for its mistress, and a formidable threat to her enemies, both past and present. And the man's lips move imperceptibly, whispering sweetly the name imprinted on his heart...

'… Nasuada …'

Biting his lips in reproach for his weakness, the rider cut the flow of magic, snuffing out the werelight, and darkness reclaimed the chamber. Only then was he able to turn away, and as he exited the secret sanctuary, ancient words locked the door. It was not as if there was anyone around there able to gain entrance or to pry into his secrets, but the unbreakable wards had been put into place nonetheless. Even should a thousand warriors storm and conquer the castle, this chamber would remain closed to everyone... forever.

Fleeing the chamber, the rider sought his companion, and within moments the comfortable rhythm of dragon wings began to sooth the residual aching emptiness. And the both of them, the Dragon and the rider flew through the storm of their turbulent emotions, as the world rushed past. Racing above the icy peaks of the north helped to calm the pair. And in this frosty wasteland they discovered an isolated place where the snow had turned to permanent ice and never melted. There, no human eye had ever before seen, nor human foot ever trod. There the pair remained for a time, clinging to the vastness that stretched out to the horizon, untouched by misfortune or evil. And when they had drank in their fill of the wilderness, the solitude, and the wandering, the pair turned, traveling southerly this time, and eventually found themselves nearing Ceunon, the city of the north.

It was hours later, and the companion had flown off to hunt. Though he could not hope to see from there, high atop yet another hill, half-hidden by the mists that rose up from the sea. There he stood alone, waiting ...

_~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~_

In the well-kept, beautiful garden of the royal palace - there behind the rose bushes - a pair of envious eyes hid. A black heart as hard as a stone, guided the hand armed with a poisoned gift. A once innocent soul sworn to the evil King, a body enslaved by his dark magic and thirsting for revenge... there she hid... waiting ...

And soon the new Queen would arrive in her garden. Always in the afternoons, the Queen would come out for a brief respite from her busy activities. And she would wander around the rose bushes, stroking with her eyes the whites, reds, pinks roses; and from among those blooms, she she would choose several to decorate her office and chamber. But she never ventured alone! Always the men of her guard preceded, checking the place. And that little dark haired girl with the mark on her brow, was never far. In fact she had become the Queen's permanent shadow.

The treacherous heart did not care about any of them. Even with all these precautions, vengeance would be done. No longer would the swords of the brave men protect the Queen. Neither the warning of the girl, nor the most powerful spell could shield her from her fate... Her fate was already written, and a slow and torturous Death would be the attendant for her walk from now on. He would enter into her chamber uninvited; uninvited he would lie with her in her bed. And it would be him and no other who would kiss her cold lips. And then the long awaited revenge would be accomplished.

And the envious eyes smiled full of malice. The sinful heart pulsated faster, expectantly for the time when the poison will start to infect the Queen's pure viscera. And she rejoiced even moreso because there was no risk for her. No one would know, and no punishment would ever come.

Revenge ...

* * *

**Posted 9-11-2013**

******A/Notes: NEVER FORGET! 9-11**

**I write this out of my own respect and desire to honor those Americans who lived through, and were examples of courage in a time when heroes were needed. And that was what we got. An entire country of heroes.**

**I want you all to remember. Not to point blame, or to seek retaliation, but to shine a light on the American Spirit that exists in the hearts of all. Some may try to bury it, or overtax it, or demean it, or destroy it. But it can not be lost or diminished as long as we hold on to it. It does not grow weaker when attacked, but it becomes even stronger and more resilient. **

**This is because the American Spirit is a gift that flows from an eternal source. It is not finite. And it is not even reserved to Americans alone. It is there for all who need it. Reach for it. Receive it. Be courageous and without fear... **

**Be a hero, just like all of those ordinary people who bravely answered the call twelve years ago.**


	5. Roses and Red Lightening

**A/Notes: Posted 10-4-2013**

**Kumar, I hope that my interpretation of your story does justice to your vision, and your poetic talents.**

**And I hope that I have given our readers an enjoyable experience as they look to the future of the IC world.**

* * *

**The Man on the Hill**

**Roses and Red Lightening**

It was an early afternoon in the royal gardens of Ilirea. A sweet winter sunshine boded the quick coming of an early spring. There, at the heart of the country, the southern winds had already begun to blow, bringing with them the rains, and leaving behind them the moist fragrant soil as they pass. That day – like every other day in her life – the gardener's daughter took care of the royal roses.

It was nearly the hour of the day that the guards would come down to check the path, and then her Majesty would surely follow, accompanied by her little, dark-haired companion. From the corner of her eye, the girl captured a slight movement on the marble steps that lead from the back of the castle to this private courtyard. The heavy footsteps of men were heard as boots struck the stone-paved path, and then the clang of the unsheathing of the swords.

'Hey you, boy!' one of them ordered sharply. "Whatever it was that you were to take care of, you've already done enough.' The captain approached her with a quick pace. 'Gather your belongings now! Her Majesty is about to come, and the garden belongs to her alone at this time of the day. You have to go!'

The gardener's daughter adjusted the brimmed straw-hat that hid her tightly tied hair, lowering it to the eyes. Collecting her scattered tools one by one, she placed them into her basket and threw her thick gloves on the top.

'Yes, sir.'

She hurriedly withdrew behind a flowerbed, and slipped into the wooden hut where they keep the bags of soil and the many garden tools. And there she hid. Through a crack between two boards, she watched unseen as the escort emerged to the well-tended, yet deserted garden. Slowly the guards spread out around the courtyard to keep watch while offering their queen some small privacy. And within minutes the Queen was left alone. The hidden girl sat on a sack of dirt and rested both her hands on the patched knees of the thick trousers worn over her slender legs.

Nobody around there knew that under the rough, threadbare clothes of the gardener concealed the thin body of a young girl. Everybody thought she was a boy. Even when they all worked in a line inside the flowerbeds. Even when they ate their frugal meals in the kitchen, along with the other servants. The Queen's guards had taken care to replace the original gardeners of the royal gardens with new ones almost immediately. None from the old King's days were considered reliable to be so close to their Lady. Only this old man and the 'boy' had remained unnoticed and were thus able to mingle with the new ones.

Finally, the guards decided there was no apparent danger. And the girl kept her vigil through the small opening of the hut, watching as the young Queen wandered with slow step through the deserted paths. Even her little companion followed at a short distance, discreetly. Approaching the rosebushes, the queen started to fondle the most beautiful roses with her slender hand. Soon she would decide; she herself would pick the chosen flowers, and then she would hurriedly return to her office and her duties. She had so little time to rejoice in her garden, the poor, young Queen.

The girl knew that this was the time to act, and she slipped out through the back door of the hut. There a lonely rosebush bloomed, its doubly large flowers, red like blood, each fragrant rose even nicer than the one before. Choosing the most magnificent bloom, the gardener's daughter detached it from its mother root, she pruned its thorns, and running, she came hastily upon, and fell down at the feet of the startled Queen, offering her the rose.

'My Lady!'

A turmoil arose in the garden, half of the guards were already rushing in brandishing their drawn swords, the other half looking for a conspiracy. But the young dark-haired attendant has remained perfectly calm, and the Queen couldn't help but to laugh.

'Do you think that this boy is a menace to me? Do you think that I'm in peril by a flower?'

The guards, embarrassed, stood down their weapons and reluctantly returned to their posts.

Stretching out her scarred hand, the Queen gently took the flower. But before she placed it together with the others, she brought it closer to her lips, drinking greedily its pleasant aroma. Her breath sounded heavier than before, stronger and more prolonged. Her lungs opened to be filled with the strong odor. Her eyes could not get enough of its red color and beauty.

'I've cultivated it for you, my Lady.' The 'boy' had remained fallen in front of the royal feet, with his head tilted near the patched knees, the brimmed hat covering the eyes.

Finally, the Queen gave her attention to the small being crouching in front of her feet. Using the same hand that held the fragrant rose, she lifted the 'boy's' chin and revealed two innocent, blue eyes; a delicate nose full of freckles because of the sun; and full lips bitten in embarrassment. The Lady of Alagaësia smiled with understanding.

'You are not a boy! You are a girl.'

Without being able to resist the intoxicating scent of the flower, the Queen lifted it again to her face and inhaled avidly its rich scent. And the gardener's girl looked her in the eye.

'I've taken care of it apart from the others. I've watered it with the blood of my heart. For you! Let me show you its root, so you may go there on your own, to pick the flowers.'

And the Queen followed the 'boy' mesmerized by the color, the freshness and the scent of the rose. And from that moment on, the Queen knew where she could find those unique flowers, and the mother root that generated them, tended behind the hut, apart from the other rose bushes.

'I've called it '_the lover's heart_'. I've planted it remotely, so as not to cross-fertilize with the others of the garden. To have this one for your pleasure, until your beloved will return to you...'

While the Queen was still focused on the new discovery, the 'boy' retreated up one of the shady paths, disappearing before any eye had noticed that she was gone. And the Lady Queen remained, content and alone, inhaling greedily the smell of her '_lover's heart_'. And she could not help but wonder ... How did this little girl know?

_~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~_

In the heart of the empire, above the royal gardens, a winter sunshine shone down on the land with a gentle warmth. But far away to the north, an impenetrable fog blanketed the hill in a dim, grey, frosty chill. Many pairs of hopeful eyes stared into the rising mists, longing to see the fog rolling in from the sea, longing to see the rumbling red in the night sky, and longing for the appearance of the cloaked stranger on whom they placed their hopes. They had been waiting for days now ... Many of them were helpless and weary ... And all around could be heard the moans from the sick, the wounded, and the sighs of their companions.

_... Will he come tonight? - they wonder silently ..._

A little boy ran quickly up to the middle of the hill, to take a look. Perhaps the healer has come, he prayed. He did not dare enter the fog, just up to where the cloud covers the rocks. Once his mended shoes disappeared from his eyes, he turned and fled back the way he came. Falling to his knees, the boy tenderly caressed his little brother's flaming brow, tending the child who had lain febrile for days.

'Have courage,' the elder boy whispered into his brother's ear, 'he is about to be seen, he has to appear, for it has been so long ...' Then his attention was distracted by an old sailor who bore his sore waist. The humidity of the countryside was a poor help in his waiting.

_… And then the fearful voice of doubt, - he will not come! …_

For it had been a long time since he was last seen - not since before the last snow came. And then it froze. And then the raging gales had started blowing inland from the sea, which made the waves beat brutally against the rocks of the coast. And then the saltiness had melted the ice, and yet he still had not come.

Too many people were gathered at the foot of the hill; and only a few of them had relatives in the city, or enough silver to pay the innkeeper. At least those were able to spend their nights in comfort. All of those not so lucky kept their vigil waiting on the hard rocks, pleading.

_... And the fearful voice returns, - he may come and you still may lose him ..._

The boy covered his brother better, so as not to feel the cold of the night. He laid himself beside his shivering sibling, bringing his warm chest close against the back of the other, like two united molds.

'He will come tonight' the boy whispered, mostly to hear it himself. 'I can feel it!'

The night sky darkened little by little – up there in the north the dusk came early – and the clouds above them grew thick and ominous. There was no wind that night, and the fog had crept all the way down to the foot of the hill. The encroaching air had lost its icy sting, and in fact it had turned into a rather sweet night. A leisurely breeze brought with it the distant scent of the elven forests; pine needles and rotten leaves, resin of the trees and wet grass. Awakened by the wholesome odors, the boy was the first one to notice the flicker of crimson on the sky, and the flashes of flames within the clouds. And with his heart full of joy, he proclaimed aloud the delightful news for all to hear...

_'He has come!'_

_~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~_

Having first filled the vases in her room with her new possessions –carried here all the way from the garden – the young Queen sat at her desk. On the smooth oak surface there was a special place reserved for that one unique, fragrant rose. It occupied the space inside its polished silver glass. Alone and glorious, the sovereign flower rested there, without coming into contact with the others, and thus compromising its odor and color. The crimson rose scattered its sweet scent, capturing the Queen's sensation; its color her eyes, its fragrance her nose. Her heart had already opened and her senses were flooded with its presence.

With her one hand she pushed aside all the papers of the work waiting for her, and she brought in front of her the silver glass. And she spent the remaining hours of the afternoon gazing at her '_lover's heart_', refusing her supper, absorbing only the flower's heady fragrance.

The dusk painted red her walls and curtains as it passed through and then withdrew from her room. And the night fell, wearing its dark veils. As the maids renewed the fire in her fireplace, the Lady noticed flashes gleaming on the dark walls. Perhaps they are reflections from the red petals, she pondered to herself. For the flower radiated such strength and beauty. In her eyes the petals became ruby scales, a prevailing atmosphere filled the space around her, and she imagined herself to be swirling into a red storm.

A whisper reached her ears, coming from all around.

_… 'Nasuada … Nasuada' …_

The Queen stood up, carefully holding with both hands the silver glass with the rose, and she placed it on her bedside table next to the royal bed. She didn't even take the time to undress, but lowered herself to the satin bedding, and let her eyelids droop in a dreamy sleep.

_... Scent in a red light ... the 'lover's heart' is softly pulsing and shining in the night ... __two lips draw close to her ear and whisper with a familiar voice ... __and it's been so long since she has heard this voice ..._

_… 'Nasuada! … come to me!' …_

* * *

**A/Notes:**

**Posted: 10-4-2013**

**I want to apologize if this story is slightly mixed with the obscure tense changes. It is translated from a 'present tense' {that I have little affinity for} and into the past tense. But as it is a tale being told I have chosen to let pieces of the 'present tense' remain as a bit of a reminder. If you find this detracts from the flow of the story, please let me know. I sort of like it, but I don't want to cause anyone confusion with it.**

**As always, thank you all for reading and for your kind understanding and support.**


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